


and those past selves we hate (let's forgive them too)

by Katterwaul



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (mostly just hurt), (sort of), Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, November 16, So much angst, no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27615691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katterwaul/pseuds/Katterwaul
Summary: “And you know what, at the end of the day, Tommy, I would say we’ve always got each other.  But we don’t.  ‘Cause...if it goes wrong, you’re probably gonna hate me.”Or, Wilbur's thoughts before, during, and after the November 16th war.
Relationships: Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	and those past selves we hate (let's forgive them too)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Hell and Back](https://youtu.be/qYBVfHdEXR4) by ShortOneGaming.
> 
> I love Wilbur, I love character studies, and the war frickin HURT ME. What can I say?
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes if you want to check them. Stay safe!

The button is still there when Tommy and Quackity drag him away from it yet again. As long as the button is there, he’s safe. He’s alright. It’s an option, always an option, lingering in the back of his mind--he has _choices_. He’s not trapped. 

Wilbur doesn’t like feeling trapped.

He doesn’t mind if he goes down with it. There’s a vicious little edge in his mind that longs to die in a blaze of glory, to prove them all wrong, to make them sorry. It’s the showman in him, he supposes. He never does anything without performing for the invisible audience in his head. Has to choose his pretty words just right to pull at heartstrings, to make an impact. If he makes an impact, then he matters. 

Wilbur needs to matter.

He knows how people work like he knows his guitar. Pluck the right strings and they sing for you. He collects people like trinkets. _He found those kids_. Tommy burns so brightly, yells so loudly, constantly in motion. Tommy’s a fucking nuisance sometimes, but he yells and people pay attention, and he’s _clever_. No one seems to realize just how clever Tommy is. He doesn’t think things through, but he’s always planning ahead. Tommy’s leadership shines on the battlefield, when his voice becomes the only thing keeping everyone calm and organized.

Wilbur’s leadership shines from the shadows. It doesn’t matter that Tommy is more popular, that Techno is more powerful, that Dream is more skilled. Wilbur knows what buttons to push.

Time passes, and the button stays there. And Wilbur tells himself he has choices, but it’s only ever going to end one way. He’s dug his grave already--hollowed out Pogtopia and hollowed out the hope in Tommy’s eyes.

_“And you know what, at the end of the day, Tommy, I would say we’ve always got each other. But we don’t. ‘Cause...if it goes wrong, you’re probably gonna hate me.”_

He runs into Niki as everyone mills about before the final battle, tense and unsure. He presents a piece of lapis to her like a cat with a dead mouse. “Blue,” he says, like it makes any sense. Like he expects her to understand. And it’s _Niki,_ so of course she stows it in her pocket with a fond sort of smile and hands him back a piece of bread. There are shadows under her eyes and a smudge of dirt on her jaw. Will fights the urge to brush it away with his thumb.

_‘Cause if it goes wrong, you’re probably gonna hate me._

_“Why’d you say my name, Niki, yeah? What’s up?”_

_“I…..nothing.”_

_“Niki, I’ve got you something to fight for. Look!”_

Niki fights for those she loves. Tommy fights for his ideals. Techno fights for the thrill. Wilbur’s...not quite sure why he fights, these days.

His hands are shaking--it’s annoying. His chest is too tight and his head is pounding with a migraine and he just wants it to be _over_. Wilbur is sick and tired of disappointing everyone who tries to love him.

_“I miss Philza. I wonder if he’d be proud of me.”_

He runs his hands up and down his arms idly and tries to recall what it felt like the last time someone hugged him. Tommy used to be so affectionate, he remembers. Used to fling his arms around Will, laughter bursting out of him like a cough, loud and wheezing. Like he couldn’t hold it in.

Somewhere along the way, between war and exile and being left trapped by a piston, buried in stone and sand and _“You’re scared, Tommyinnit,”_ Tommy started keeping more distance between Wilbur and himself. Will had once walked in on him and Tubbo with their heads leaned together, gripping each other’s forearms like it was the only thing keeping them grounded. He’d turned around and tried to forget it ever happened, like he tried to forget the tear tracks on Niki’s face when she curled up in corners. Like he tried to forget how Tubbo cowered at loud noises and bright lights now. 

_“Oh, I don’t have a home, let’s be honest.”_

He knows he’s the bad guy here. He _knows_ and he’s not sorry, he’s not. He’s doing what needs to be done. So when the fighting is over, and Schlatt is gone, and Tubbo is giving a speech with a beaming smile on his face because _after everything, it was meant to be_ , Wilbur excuses himself and walks away. He has more…. _pressing_ issues to attend to. Tubbo is talking about pieces of wood and nails and patching holes, but Wilbur always knew he was meant to be firewood.

“There’s, um...I always, whenever I’m here, I’m reminded of the song that I’ve scribbled on the walls. You know, that there _was_ a special place. There _was_. _Was_ a special place. Where men could go and...emancipate, you know… And there was definitely, that special place did exist once, it did. It did. But even with Tubbo in charge, I don’t think it can exist again. ...I don’t think it can exist again. So… The button’s right there. This is it, if I’m going to press it ever, it’s now. And… the _thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore._ The thing I worked towards doesn’t exist anymore. It’s over.”

“What are you doing.” He knows that voice. He flinches like a cornered animal. Phil is there, he’s _right there_ , and he looks like condemnation and forgiveness all rolled into one. 

It’s a bit too late for forgiveness.

There’s a smile on Wilbur’s lips as he explains, eager and excited, like he’s showing his dad the macaroni art he made. If Phil would just listen, he’d understand _why_ Wilbur has to do this. Maybe he’d still be proud of him. “There _was_ a special place where men could go--but it’s not there anymore, you know? It’s not--”

“It _is_ there. You’ve just--you’ve just won it back, Will.”

Wilbur wants to cry. He wants to launch himself into Phil’s arms and breathe in the scent of golden apples and firework rockets and home. But Will doesn’t have a home, not anymore. Every time he tries to make one, it gets taken from him. It’s _his_ L’Manberg, and he refuses to regret this. He’s come too far, now. This is how it always had to go, because it was never meant to be. 

The button clicks, rough-hewn wood against his fingertips. Wilbur turns and looks Phil dead in the eye, saluting as heat erupts against his back and neck and the world burns behind him. 

_‘Cause if it goes wrong, you’re probably gonna hate me._

_You’re probably gonna hate me._

It’s done. It’s done and Wilbur _melts_ , legs buckling and eyes squeezed shut. He expects his knees to hit the floor, but Phil...Phil catches him under the arms and pulls him close. Wilbur breathes out for the first time in what feels like weeks. He feels safe, and he shouldn’t. Philza is watching the carnage over his shoulder even as his hand rubs gentle circles up and down Will’s back, like he used to do when Will would come home crying with a scraped knee or crawl into his bed after a nightmare. Maybe Wilbur’s the nightmare now--what a fucking cliche.

When the ringing in his ears fades a little, he can hear ~~his friends~~ people screaming in the distance. He rips himself away from Phil to look. The crater is massive, there’s water flooding everywhere, people are still running and fighting on the tiny islands of ground that are left. Wilbur runs his tongue across his teeth, scrubs his hands over his face.

“ _My_ L’Manberg, Phil! My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished! _If I can’t have this, no one can, Phil.”_ And something in Wilbur, something that’s been brittle for a long, long time, _snaps_. He yanks his sword from the scabbard at his side and brandishes it, hilt first, at Phil. “Kill me, Phil. Phil, stab me with the sword. Murder me now. Do it.” He stares out across the wreckage and meets the eyes of the few people who have noticed him up here. He stares, daring them to challenge him. “Look, they all want you to! Do it, Phil. Kill me. Phil, kill me.”

“You’re my _son_. No matter what you...dude, no matter what you’ve done, I can’t--”

And...oh. Wilbur wishes that still mattered, but right now, he just wants it all to be over. He wants to be free.

Wilbur doesn’t like feeling trapped.

“Phil, this isn’t--look, _look._ How much work went into this and it’s gone? Do it. Do it.” 

And Phil glances out across the crater again. Will follows his gaze and Tommy is there, eyes locked with Phil’s. Something changes in Phil’s face, something in the tilt of his brows and the set of his jaw. Phil shakes his head, gently, and raises the sword.

Blood smells like metal, like iron pickaxes and unlit lanterns. Regret tastes like charred flesh from a fire aspect sword and he burns, burns, burns.

**Wilbur Soot was slain by Ph1LzA**

-

When Will opens his eyes again, not even sure if he really wants to, he’s in the middle of the forest. His chest still aches where the wounds haven’t healed yet. He ignores the pain and scrambles to his feet and heads toward L’Manberg--the crater formerly known as L’Manberg. He stops at Eret’s museum, ducks inside the replica of the Camarvan. 

_“My finished symphony. I finished. My great finished symphony.”_

He catches the sudden scent of ozone in the air, feels the rumbling in the ground, and he knows, with the kind of knowing that’s built deep into his bones, that the Withers are here now. And he _laughs_.

_“This server’s built on blowing up and burning. How are they shocked? How is anyone shocked at this?”_

When he gets to the edge of L’Manberg, it’s chaos. Bodies are being flung through the air to land on the ground with sickening _thud_ s. Fireworks are exploding. Skulls are shooting everywhere. Distantly, Tommy is yelling orders, trying to pull everyone together. He doesn’t need Wilbur anymore--he’s never needed him, truly. 

Will catches sight of Techno in the midst of it all, a feral grin stretched across his face. Blood for the blood god, as the saying goes. _I’ve won. We’ve won! Me and Technoblade._ A Wither skull crashes against his chest, knocking him down the hill. He feels his ankle snap with the impact and he’s pretty sure at least two ribs are broken, but it doesn’t matter much anymore, does it? He swipes away the blood dripping down his chin with a fist and bares his teeth. 

“Kill me. Again. Do it. I’ve seen enough.”

But the Wither turns away, and Will is left barely clinging onto his unwanted life as his eyes shut and the world goes black.

 _“Tubbo? You’re president of a_ _crater! Enjoy.”_

-

He’s still lying on the hill when Niki finds him, hours later. She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp and falls to her knees beside his broken body, checking for a pulse. It’s faster than it should be, weak and rabbit-quick. If she had to guess, that’s probably explained by the pool of blood he’s lying in. 

His eyes flutter open, and after a few seconds they focus on her face. Will smiles, a tiny, broken thing. “I did it, Niki.”

“Yeah?” she breathes. “Was it worth it?”

He laughs. It turns into a wet, pained cough partway through. “I think so.”

“Tubbo wanted to let you rot, you know.”

“Yeah, well...maybe that’s what I deserve. It sounds pretty peaceful, if I’m being honest.” 

She’s still gripping his wrist, feeling his pulse, and he turns his hand to weave their fingers together. “I’m so tired, Niki.”

“You can rest, Will, okay? Just rest. You’ll be alright.” Niki smiles and it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Are you sure?” His voice is soft and unsure like a child’s, afraid to go to sleep in case the monsters get him. 

_“Niki, I’ve got you something to fight for. Look!”_

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Will.” And Niki’s eyes widen slightly, and she uses the hand not currently holding Wilbur’s to rummage in her pockets. She pulls out the piece of lapis lazuli he’d given her, back at the start of all this. “Blue,” she says simply, and places it gently in his other hand. 

“Blue,” Wilbur whispers back. 

For a moment, they just sit there, thinking, and then his face goes even paler than it already was and his grip tightens on Niki’s hand and he’s struggling to sit up and he whimpers, “Niki, I’m scared, I’m _scared_ , it hurts--”

And she shushes him and shifts so his head is in her lap, as gently as she knows how, and she strokes her fingers through his mess of curls. She tries to ignore the blood matted in his hair. “It’s alright, Will. You’re alright. Would you like me to sing to you?”

At his ginger nod, she takes a deep breath and starts to sing. 

_I heard there was a special place_

_Where men could go and emancipate_

_The tyranny and the bloodlust of their ruler,_

_Well, this place is true, you needn’t fret,_

_With friends that none will soon forget,_

_It’s a very big and--_

And she breaks off in a slightly hysterical giggle, feeling everything well up inside again from where she’d pushed it down, but that’s not what Wilbur needs right now. No matter what Wilbur’s done, he’s her friend. No one deserves to suffer. So she keeps on singing and pretends that nothing’s wrong.

_It’s a very big but now blown-up L’Manberg._

_It’s L’Manberg, it’s L’Manberg, it’s L’Manberg--_

She leans down and presses her forehead to Will’s, whispering the last line.

_Our L’Manberg._

Wilbur blinks. Lets go of the lapis to bring his hand up to her face, and her eyes close for a moment as she leans into the touch. “I...I think I might be sorry. I feel a little sorry. Niki, does everyone hate me? Do you hate me?”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, Will. That’s why it hurts.”

_‘Cause if it goes wrong, you’re probably gonna hate me._

“Do you know why I did it? Do you understand?” There’s urgency in his tone. The last request of a dying man.

“I do, Will, I know why. You forgot what you were fighting for.”

“Oh,” he sighs. His voice is getting weaker, his breathing even more unsteady.

“But that’s okay. I forgive you. It’s time to rest now, Will, okay? I’m right here. I won’t leave you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And she doesn’t leave, even as his hand slips from her cheek, and his breaths slow to a halt, and the pulse against her fingertips stops. She doesn’t leave until his body crumbles away into smoke, and even longer after that, she kneels in the dirt and stares at the piece of lapis lazuli in her hands. 

  
_Was it ever meant to be?_

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: suicidal ideation, minor blood/injury/gore, minor manipulation of other people, death.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Drink some water, be kind to others, and have a great day <3


End file.
